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Twelve-year-old Tasha is relieved to leave her friends and move north with her parents to her ailing grandfather’s farm. She is not the same since what happened at Claw’s Edge. She doesn’t pursue new friendships and no longer goes exploring, opting instead to help around the farm and spend time with her family, for now she knows she cannot trust others to keep her safe. She must rely on herself. All the same, she is lonely, and on the first snowfall of the year, she wishes the snow girl she made with Grandpa would come to life and be her friend. What follows is magic Tasha had never dreamed of. The Snow Girl is acclaimed author Sophie Anderson’s retelling of the classic Russian tale “The Snow Maiden” for middle grade readers, but readers of all ages will love snuggling in with this touching and sensitive story. As Tasha’s friendship with the snow girl Alyana grows, Anderson explores trauma, discernment, trust, and self-confidence. She creates a cozy, timeless atmosphere, deliciously detailed with Russian food and folkore, making it a perfect story to curl up with on a winter night. Stunningly beautiful gray and blue illustrations and page decorations by Melissa Castrillón swirl throughout the book, making it even more of a pleasure to read. A moving tale of bravery, hope, friendship, and letting go, The Snow Girl is simply magic. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Welcome to the season of the liminal, and the opening of Curiosity Shoppes everywhere! It's October, the month of “O” and "oh" and "ooo…”—that time of year when the human world begins to decorate with icons of Other. The smell of magic is in the air and stores everywhere—on land and online—throw out their lures, charming you into lingering among tantalizing displays of age-old charms and rose-wreathed skulls—of spellbooks writ with raven feathers and iron-weighted keys smudged with rust. Or is that...blood? "Come buy, come buy," and you roll your eyes. The chant is the same every year. Then, as always, your gaze alights on some goblin fruit you swear you'd never seen. In your mind's eye, it already sits as your seasonal centerpiece, potent and brooding over your forks, knives, and guests—your visitors' eyes glinting in the aftereffect of spellcast; just as you secretly wished. What a magical evening this fruit promises! You must have it after all... Folklorically inclined fellows seem particularly susceptible to these offerings. Though we happily join the masses who give into the annual tradition of adding a new seasonal element to their tablescapes, landscapes, or personal masques, it's us folkloric folk who especially feel our senses hum. When certain objects appear in the mundane world of the everyday store shelves and virtual shop windows, we feel a sense of synchronicity, of destiny. Even poor imitations, made of resin, plaster, and plastics—yes, even those!—draw our eyes and our imaginations. How can we resist a skull entwined with briar thorns and rosebuds, handmade twig brooms, foreboding crowned ravens, imperfect (and suspiciously second-hand) cauldrons, teetering spellbooks with shaky hand-inked titles, and haunted typewriters that declare "I love you...to death..."? If we are truly honest with ourselves, we realize we don't. And we don’t want to. Even if we don't hand over our preciously-saved pennies to add such compelling echoes of fairy tales to our collections, the images of these made-manifest symbols of stories fill our thoughts and dreams, making us feel that this season we have stepped one length closer to that elusive mist we think of as Other... Because, in a sense, we have. But there is a dark underbelly to these portals of promise. Why are we drawn toward this carnival of wares every year? Do our hearts harbor greedy little gnomes, lusting after anything new and shiny? Or is something more at work here? The trick with Goblin Fruit is that it leads you to believe "... this is your one chance..." to grab it, to taste it but within the truth is also a great lie. It's not just about that unique taste but of being part of the Great Magic that the fruit promises, yet there are so many, many paths to enchantment; these cunning little fruits are only one of them. Let's take a step back, out of the heady aroma, beyond the tangled webs of enchantment, to see what it is we're truly craving, and why it's so easy to hungrily buy (literally) into the goblin-ridden world of Halloween goods. We all love the staples—the cauldrons, the brooms, the skulls, the black roses—but it's those familiar motifs with a fresh twist, combined with new items seemingly straight out of a tale, that make us stop and look again. These objects, for many of us, sing a particularly strong siren song, but why is it that particular items can have such an ensorcelling effect on our senses (and wallets)? Because they are telling our stories. In a time of overwhelm and discord, (also known as "now!") sometimes something as simple as holding a large rusting key in our palm, grounds us, stops the world spinning, and focuses our minds on Story. Items that represent tales and pieces of folklore, especially if they are Our stories, help bring those tales to our dimension, to life; our tangible present connecting us to both wondrous pasts and magical possibilities of the future. And let's be honest, those items with that darker edge, at this time of year, feel a little more magically-real in difficult times. A darker talisman brimming with potential and an escape into Story. How is that not alluring? Who doesn't wish to revel in magical possibilities? It’s true that each fairy tale aficionado will have their inner chords thrum a little differently, according to the song (we are individuals after all) but despite how tired we are of the overused canon, we cannot help our heads turn on seeing a flash of red cape disappear through the trees, or a single, bright apple held out toward us for the taking. It's our shorthand and immediate door into "once upon a time,” yet it’s not a given that we will succumb and fall under the spell. We know, more than anyone, there is a way out of these darkly enchanted woods; we just have to remind ourselves that we can't quite see it. Yet. To browse with awareness helps you stay on a path of your choosing, rather than feeling, and becoming, lost. To recognize what’s happening is to become more aware of discovering true treasures versus transient cravings; to scent the true nature—goblin or not—of that fruit you’re about to bite. So look, dream, imagine, and wonder. Heed the siren call if you must. And if you fear you'll find the fruit too tempting, take a fairy tale friend along for the ride. There's nothing like a sister, or bosom friend, to watch your back in a Goblin Market. Just take care which curiosities you add to your basket. The fruits are many and the stalls bigger than they appear—ready and waiting for you to take just one step further and Come Buy, Come Buy… Gypsy Thornton (she/her) is the Guardian of a chicken-legged coffee cup with a mind of its own. A night owl forced to get up with larks, she often describes herself as liminal and is forever trying to do impossible things before breakfast. She can only be seen in her true form after midnight. fairytalenewsblog.blogspot.com medium.com/@inkgypsy Images: "Goblin Market" by Warwick Goble, 1920 "Goblin Market" by Arthur Rackham, 1933

Once upon a time a farmer’s wife stood looking out of her window. “If only I had a daughter with hair the color of our wheatfield,” she sighed, “I would love her, even if she could speak no more than the wind rustling through the sheaves.” And soon enough a little girl was born to the farmer and his wife; her hair was a golden as ripened wheat, but she never made a sound. They named her Hush, and she learned to write and draw, chattering away as gaily through her scribbles and drawings as any child ever did through speech. The girl was as pretty as a picture and as good as gold, and no one ever minded her silence, or the way she had of staring as if drinking them up. Hush drew things into herself and poured them out again in paint. By the time she was a young maiden the farmhouse was decorated with Hush’s paintings, beautiful things that glowed as if with an inner light. But one day the farmer’s wife fell ill. Hush sat by her mother’s bedside, stroking her hand, but her mother did not respond. Days went by, and her mother worsened. Hush and her father sat silently together as the mother’s breath slowed, and finally stopped. Hush looked up through her tears to see Death standing at the head of the bed. But Death was not looking at her mother. He was looking at the painting behind Hush, a golden summer afternoon. Then Death looked at Hush. “There is little beauty in my home,” he said. “Come to my house, paint the most beautiful picture of your heart for me, and I will spare your mother.” Hush nodded. At the empty castle of Death the dead souls filed by the arched windows, silently, endlessly. Death brought paints and canvases and brushes, and gave Hush a wide dark room lit by many candles. “Paint,” he said. Hush painted. She painted from her memory, the animals and landscapes and people she had loved every day of her life. But she felt that something was not right, and tore the canvases apart. More paints, Hush wrote to Death. Silent, he brought pots and tubes and jars from all over the world. He bought colors she had never seen before, heavy blocks that had be ground into fine powder and mixed with water. Hush painted. She painted from her imagination, storybook creatures and mysterious grottos and fairy lights dancing. The wondrous pigments gave her paintings an ethereal quality they had never possessed before. Yet still something was not right, and again Hush destroyed her paintings. More candles, Hush wrote. Death brought tall white pillars and surrounded the easel with flames so that the room was as bright as noon. The souls filing by the windows shielded their eyes with their withered hands. Hush painted. She painted from her dreams, shadowed and ominous. Her paintings were as dark as the room was light. Grim faces seemed to leer from her backgrounds, and her subjects grew strange and tormented, mouths twisted in silent screams. She did not destroy these, but sat troubled, looking at them as they dried. Death came to look at her latest works. “You can no longer paint beauty,” he said. “You must return and I will take your mother.” Hush raised her hands in mute despair. “One last night,” he said. All night Hush sat in front of her canvas. Not a single beautiful image would come; her mind was in darkness and turmoil. Finally she began painting, slowly at first but then faster and faster, as the candles burned lower. When morning came she collapsed to the floor and slept. Death returned and looked at Hush’s final painting. It was not beautiful. It was a portrait of Death himself, and he saw that it was more terrible and magnificent than anything she had painted yet. He leaned in and looked closer, seeing himself the mirror of Hush’s despair. She had drawn him into herself and poured him out again on the canvas. Hush awoke in her own bed, with her father and mother holding her hands on either side, crying with joy at her return. Hush squeezed her parents’ hands and smiled. But she did not understand why Death had sent her back and spared her mother when she had not fulfilled her promise. She stood by the window, staring out at the wheatfield. As the wind rustled through the sheaves, she felt her heart lift. She picked up her brush. Amy Bennett-Zendzian holds an MA/MFA from Simmons College and an MA from Boston University. She is a Lecturer in Writing at Boston University, where she teaches courses on fairy tales. She has published poetry in Gingerbread House Literary Magazine and the NonBinary Review, and her short plays have been produced around the Boston area. Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

Following the first book in the Crowns of Nyaxia series, The Ashes and the Star Cursed King has arrived. In this new tale Oraya must continue her journey as a human in a world of winged vampires. After the loss of her father at the end of the Kejari trials, Oraya questions herself and everything her life has come to be. Following Rhain’s ascension to the throne, she must choose a side, the rebels still loyal to her father’s throne, or the man she once loved. She is a queen now, and power is hers for the taking if only she had the courage to reach out and grab it once more. This book is a wild roller coaster of action, murder, mystery, and intrigue and it followed up the first book extremely well. This series is an excellent fit for those who enjoy a heaping teaspoon of romance with their fantasy. As I had loved the first book, I was delighted by the quick release of the second book, but nervous to see whether or not it would be as good as the first, and I was not disappointed. In fact, I think the plot was even better in this book since Oraya spends more time in court so we as the readers get to discover a bit more of the history and politics of her land. Whether or not to trust Rhain as the readers though provides a real moral question. After the first book, I think we were all wondering whether or not he was going to turn out as a good character any more because he’d crossed such a boundary in Oraya’s life. However I think the second book has great character arcs for both of them, and we get to meet some exciting new figures as well. If you haven’t checked out this series yet, it’s a perfect cold weather read, and will sate any romantasy fanatic like me. Happy reading! You can find a copy HERE. Madeline Mertz is FTM's editorial intern and is a Truman State University student with literary journal experience.

Editor’s note: We're a sucker for a grandmother story. And what a grandmother! And what daughters! Such powers they have! This story hits all the right notes for a Halloween fairy tale. Enjoy! A long time ago at the edge of a village in a remote valley there lived twin sisters who were still babies when their parents died. Although the girls were orphans, fortune had smiled upon them in three ways. The first was the wind, which kissed them on the day of their birth. This kiss showed itself in their wavy, windswept hair and in how they could run like the wind. Likewise, their temperament was usually as placid as a summer breeze, but at times could turn as turbulent as a winter blizzard. The second way that fortune smiled upon them was their grandmother, who was known in the village as Grandmother Brua, respected for her knowledge of plants, and feared for her power. Few ever dared to approach her. Grandmother Brua always sang melodies that were haunted with aches and longing, and the twins would ask her why she sang such sad songs. “Because life changes and people lose things,” she would say. “Your day of change will come, and you too will have to give something up.” The twins would laugh and say, “Oh Grandmother, things will never change. We will always play here in our hut, and you will always be there to care for us.” And Grandmother Brua would listen to her granddaughters’ innocence and laugh with them. The third thing the twins had in their favor was each other. Since the day of their birth, the twins woke together, ate from the same bowl, and played the same games which always ended in a draw. At night, they slept in the same tiny bed, in which they would sing each other lullabies until they both drifted off to sleep. Although Grandmother Brua thought it strange that the twins could be so close, she knew that she too, was a bit strange. But not even Grandmother Brua knew the strangest thing of all about her granddaughters. From the time they were still small, the wind would call them on nights of the full moon, and the two would slip out of their hut and plunge into the forest. There, the twins would sing into the sky. The wind would mix its voice with theirs, and the three would sing together. On such nights, a gentle breeze would caress the dwellings of the valley, and villagers would drift into a contented sleep. The old people would smile at each other by the fire and say, “how blessed we are to live in our remote valley, so far from the troubles of the world.” Such blessings were too good to last, and, sure enough, a blight struck, so that the crops of the valley began to wither. A young farmer, who had not yet learned to fear Grandmother Brua, approached her hut and called out, “Grandmother Brua, our crops are beset with a blight. If they fail, we will starve this winter. Is there nothing you can do to help us?” Grandmother Brua emerged from her hut. “I will help you,” she said, and gave the farmer a large bottle of yellow powder. “Mix this powder with dirt and spread the dirt over your crops and they will be saved.” The young man went to the other farmers and showed them the powder. Although they were suspicious of Grandmother Brua, they did as the old woman had instructed, and their crops were saved. Not long afterwards, the twins were old enough to venture forth from the hut. They sought out other children to play with but were rejected. Terrible rumors had always swirled about Grandmother Brua and her household. The old woman ached for her granddaughters when they came back home crying, for she knew the pain of rejection. She also knew of the vicious gossip in the village, and she knew of three women who fed those rumors. These women were so widely feared that all simply called them “The Three.” From this moment, when the twins sang with the wind on nights of the full moon, the dwellings of the village moaned with fierce gusts. The villagers would sleep fitfully and suffer from troubling dreams, and the old people would gather by the fire and say, “how alone we are in this remote valley, where no one can help us.” A spirit of unease settled into the land. Whether it was caused by the unease, none can say, but a terrible plague struck. The children of the village grew sick and weak. The sound of coughing and wheezing filled the streets, along with the wailing of their mothers. The young farmer had a son, who became quite ill. Again he went to Grandmother Brua and begged for her help. But this time Grandmother Brua refused. “Let The Three come to me and ask for help,” she said. “For I have a complaint against them.” The Three were terrified upon hearing Grandmother Brua’s words, for they also had children who were ill. That afternoon the villagers saw the three women, with shawls pulled around their heads, walking west to Grandmother Brua’s hut. The news flew like the wind. Grandmother Brua heard a mournful noise outside her hut. She opened her door and was astonished to see all the mothers of the village bowed down and wailing, “Please help us! Our children are dying! Please help us!” Grandmother Brua emerged from her hut and broke down in tears before them, for she herself knew the agony of losing a daughter and felt ashamed for withholding her help. She gave the women a powerful mushroom potion. “All must drink,” she said. “Everyone, with no exceptions.” The villagers did as she had instructed, and the village was saved. Although Grandmother Brua accepted the remorse of The Three, she did not believe the village would change. She was wrong, and the village children welcomed her granddaughters into their games. Once again, the wind brought a spirit of well-being into the village, and at night, the old people would gather around their fires and say, “how fortunate we are in this valley, and we have Grandmother Brua to protect us.” The village prospered and the children grew. The good fortune of the village continued until some young men found what seemed like a blessing, but was, in fact, a curse. A strange yellow metal lay bare by the foundation of the new village hall. Gold! News of the discovery quickly spread across the land. The two neighboring kingdoms heard the news, and before the villagers could decide what to do, they found themselves surrounded by two opposing armies. The men of these armies were wild with gold fever and would think nothing of destroying whatever stood in their way. As the sun set, these men made ready for battle on the following day. The elders of the village went to Grandmother Brua. They begged her for anything she might be able to do. The old woman could only stammer. “I—don’t—know!” Grandmother Brua closed her door and wept. The blight was easy to address with her plants. The plague, though more difficult to cure, was still within her abilities. But what could an old woman with a few herbs do against an invading army, let alone two? That night the twins did not wait for the wind to call them, and they plunged into the black of a moonless forest. In a small glen they held out their arms, tipped their heads to the sky and sang. Their voices spoke of helplessness and frustration. The wind heard, mixed its voice with theirs, and the three sang together. As they sang, frustration rose to anger, which erupted into unrestrained fury. Clouds formed in the sky, which coiled high into the heavens like huge snakes, tense, hissing, and ready to strike. Lightning flashed and frozen rain pelted. Thunder shook the earth and the whole valley trembled as a mighty gale bore down upon it. The wind howled with voices so discordant that people clamped their hands to their ears and cried out for fear of going mad. Gusts struck without mercy, and so the storm raged into the night. At first light, Grandmother Brua cast a sleepy eye at the twins as they slipped back into the hut and collapsed into bed. She noticed how their return coincided with the easing of the storm and saw the frozen world outside her window. Then she understood the bond the twins had with the wind and knew what her granddaughters had done. She began to craft her own plans for the day. Like the men of their armies, the kings arose from a dismal night with no rest. They surveyed their camps and found their great machines of war stuck in the frozen mud, their armaments brittle with cold and coated with a thick blanket of ice. The soldiers were stricken by rumors that the village was cursed, and any further action would lead to certain death. The kings held councils with their generals who advised parley instead of open battle. So they called for their personal retinues and headed to the village square. There they found a crone with two mysterious hooded figures at her side. The villagers huddled around the square’s periphery. The kings approached with their generals. “I know what has stopped you,” said the crone. “If you wish to leave the valley alive, you must do as I say. Sit down.” The kings and their retinues sat down. “We are listening,” they said. “I know of your hunger for gold,” said the old woman, and she set down a parchment before them. “This contract outlines how you are to share it between yourselves and leave the village in peace.” The kings and their retinues reviewed the parchment and found it to be fair. “You will sign it in blood,” said the crone. The cleverer of the two kings stood. “We will sign,” he said, “but your companions must show themselves first. We think it fair that we know who we are dealing with.” Grandmother Brua heaved a long sigh, turned to her beloved granddaughters, and nodded. The twins pulled their hoods back for all to see. Flushed with the power wielded from the previous night, their glory shone like the blinding sun. All were astonished at the sight of the young women, but none more so than the two kings, who had a driving thirst to possess beauty. The bolder of the two kings stood. “We will sign the contract in blood, but only if we have these two women as our wives. That is our condition.” The surrounding generals set their faces like stone and placed their hands on their swords. Then the twins knew their day of change had come, and they knew what they would have to give up. They embraced, wept bitter tears, and said affectionate words with such lamentation that all in the square wept with them. Then they took their places at the sides of their new husbands. The kings drew their knives, cut themselves, and signed the contract in their own blood. The crone rolled up the parchment and placed it in her satchel. “Do not break your promise,” she said. “For the contract makes clear your fates if you do.” The kings shuddered as they recalled the previous night and nodded. The sisters each accompanied their husbands to their new homes. They both became mighty queens over vast countries, and loving mothers of virtuous children. And, sometimes, on full moon nights, the wind would call to each of them, and they would slip out of their castle gates, and plunge deep into the forest. There, they would sing of their joys, their sorrows, and their longings. And the wind would mix its voice with theirs, and the three would sing together. Mike Neis lives in Orange County, California and works as a technical writer for a commercial laboratory. His work has appeared previously in Enchanted Conversations and elsewhere. Cover Graphic: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF Cover Painting: "The Artist's Daughters," Thomas Gainsborough, 1760

When Buffy the Vampire Slayer made her debut in the 90s, first in film and later on TV, she was a bit of a revelation: a pretty, petite blonde who just happened to be the Chosen One when it came to killing vampires. Buffy was reluctant, even uninterested in sharpening her natural, superhuman gifts, but in the end, she had no choice but to become a super-powered action hero in leggings, chunky-heeled boots, and a leather jacket. While the TV series clearly dug into “high school as Hell” metaphors, unpacking the pain of mean girls, first love, growing up, and getting through classes with a passing grade, poet Kim Malinowski has different levels of Hell in mind. Step right up and enter Buffy’s House of Mirrors, if you dare. Buffy’s House of Mirrors follows the unnamed narrator into a carnival funhouse where she examines herself and her relationships in an ever-shifting series of reflections, exploring body image, empowerment, and identity. Punctuated by Gabby Gilliam's bold yet simple illustrations, Malinowski’s poems are evocative and raw, consistently delivering powerful lines like, “No one can tell us how to live being us,” and “’Who am I?’/I cannot say/I have only been told.” The narrator takes off her Buffy-colored glasses and sings, dances, even raps her way through mirror after mirror, alternately comparing herself to and proudly standing apart from Buffy and Spike. Malinowski gets into the jagged corners of relationships, at her sharpest when holding the stake to her own heart. Whether reflecting on self-love, agency, or longing, Buffy’s House of Mirrors slays it! Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Writer, Poet, Professor. These three words hang beneath my name on the new website I recently created to showcase my work, and although each word is an accurate term for the daily jobs that I perform, a part of me is still surprised each time I see them blink across the screen. For most of my life, I have been my parents’ daughter, my husband’s wife, my children’s mother. I have defined myself, as so many women do, by my relationships with others rather than by the titles I have earned through my work. I have written prose and poetry since I was a child. I have been teaching classes at local universities since my own children were born. But, when I first typed the words writer, poet, professor, beneath my name on the homepage of my website, it felt strange, as though I had cloaked my identity in restrictive business attire when it was used to lounging around in cozy pajamas. I created my website to help promote The Fairy Tale Magazine, a publication that I love. It was Kate Wolford, the founder and publisher of The Fairy Tale Magazine (formerly Enchanted Conversation), who became my fairy godmother, helping me to turn the scribbles in my notebooks into stories and poems I could share with the world. A couple of those stories and poems can be found in printed books, but much of my published writing and many of my posts and book reviews can be found online, so I linked my work to my website along with some information about me and my teaching. I connected my website to my Facebook and Instagram accounts so that interested readers can follow me on social media, and, finally, I wrote my first blog post, “Salutations: Charlotte’s Web and the Invisibility of the Author”, an essay that explores one of my favorite childhood novels and the influence it still has on my reading and writing today. I love being a daughter, a wife, and a mother, but collecting and sharing my work on my website has helped me to realize that I can also claim the titles of writer, poet, and professor to define key aspects of my identity. These titles don’t have to feel stiff and uncomfortable; the longer I wear them, the faster they will break in, wrapping around me like a favorite sweater that complements any outfit, no matter the season. I plan to add more writing, information, and free giveaways to my website in the months and years to come. I want my website to be a place where friends can gather to learn more about fairy tales, books, writing, and literature. I hope my website will offer my followers a space to find inspiration, celebrate creativity, and enjoy the everyday enchantment that comes from being part of a reading and writing community.

Editor’s note: This story appealed to us because it has a classic fairy tale structure, combined with beautiful details—especially about the Firebird. The story reminds us of why we love fairy tales! Once upon a time there were three witches. They were sisters and they each lived alone in her own hut deep in the darkest forest. The oldest sister was feared by all the surrounding villages. She was known as mean and wicked and most people left her alone. Occasionally, a knight would show up, intending to kill her. But he stood no chance against her in her own home. She had a collection of human skulls on her fence posts surrounding her hut to warn away any other brave young men that came to try to challenge her. The middle sister was also known by the surrounding villages. But she was loved and trusted by those who came to her in need. The middle sister was often willing to give aid to the sick and injured. She also offered potions and lucky charms to those who could convince her that they were in need. The oldest sister and the middle sister did not get along at all, for they had very differing views about how a witch should behave amongst the human world. The oldest thought witches were better and more important than others because of their power given to them by Mother Earth. The middle sister felt that witches were given the power to aid humans and other creatures and that they were to behave with benevolence and authority over the poor wretched villagers that were tasked to them. The youngest of the three sisters had a secret. She lived deep in the dark woods and she wasn’t known by the people of the villages. She wasn’t mean, she didn’t have to go up against young knights who were looking to prove themselves. She wasn’t known for her healing or her spells and wasn’t sought after by the sick of body, mind, or heart. But she did have her secret. On All Hallows’ Eve, the three sisters were in the forest collecting mushrooms for use in meals and potions. And in hopes of coming upon a firebird. Firebirds were magical creatures that were exceedingly rare indeed. Coming across a firebird was considered to be very lucky and one who could even touch it was considered to have the most powerful magic themselves. A firebird could only be found on All Hallows’ Eve, as it was the only day of the year that they could be seen with human eyes. The youngest of the three sisters was the first to see the firebird. He was beautiful and regal, sitting tall in the tree with his red feathers blazing hot in the dappled sunlight that found him through the orange and yellow autumn leaves above. She could see waves of heat rippling off his body and into the air. His long tail dangled far below the branch he sat on and the plume on his head bobbled back and forth as he cocked his head to the side to look at her. She ran over to her older sisters to point him out to them. She was so happy that she was the one that was lucky enough to see the bird first as he stared down at them. The bird sat high up in a tree and looked down at them with a casual glance. He seemed unconcerned that the three witches below him were very excited to see him. For he was not at all excited to see them. He did, however, seem to have an interest in the youngest witch. He shifted from one foot to the other on his perch and watched them with curiosity as they moved closer to him. The three sisters whispered among themselves. The oldest sister wanted to capture the bird and kill him to drain his magical essence. The middle sister wanted to catch him and bring him home as a pet, so she could utilize his magic when necessary. The youngest sister wished she hadn’t pointed the poor creature out to her sisters at all and looked up at the bird with apologetic eyes as her sister witches put together a plan. The oldest witch had some leftover bread in her pocket. She had brought it with her in case she got hungry. She volunteered to use the bread to lure the bird out of his tree and down to the ground so they could capture the creature. The middle sister had brought a large dark green cloak with her, in case she got cold deep in the forest. She said she could use the cloak to throw over the bird when he came down to the ground to eat the bread. The two sisters agreed that they would decide what to do with the bird once he was captured. The youngest sister watched the bird closely and hoped that he didn’t like bread and that the crumbs that her oldest sister sprinkled on the ground would be of no interest to the bird. The two older sisters put their plan into action, and much to the youngest sister’s disappointment, the bird came down out of the tree and floated gracefully to the ground and started to eat the bits of bread that the oldest sister had scattered on the ground. The middle sister threw her cloak over the bird and it squawked in anger as it thrashed around under the heavy green cloak. The three sisters jumped towards the bird, with the older two sisters trying to grab the bird as he thrashed around under the cloak. The youngest sister, feeling for the bird, lunged forward and grabbed the corner of the cloak. She pretended to stumble backwards and pulled the cloak hard, releasing the bird from her sisters’ attempts to capture him. The bird’s head appeared out the far end of the cloak from where the youngest sister still held on to it, and as the bird spread his wings, he knocked over the older two sisters, through the cloak, and forced them to stumble backwards. All three sisters scrambled on the ground to try to regain their footing, but it was too late. The firebird took off in a burst of flames that forced the older two sisters to cover their faces in order to protect themselves from the power of the bird. He soared high into the air and off into the evening sunset. The youngest sister looked at her hand and found that she had accidentally pulled two tail feathers from the bird when she tried to rescue him. She hid the feathers in her skirt pocket quickly, before her sisters could see. She handed her middle sister back her cloak and stared at the ground. The middle sister snatched the cloak away from the youngest sister and the oldest sister swore curses at the youngest for her clumsiness and stupidity, and for costing them the chance at obtaining a firebird for another year. The three sisters went back to their homes, the older two in anger and disappointment. The youngest went home in relief and was glad that the firebird had gotten away safely. Late that night, under the light of the full moon, there was a knock at the youngest sister’s door. She climbed out of bed and looked out the window to see a tall man dressed as a knight standing at her front door. She went to her door and opened it just slightly. “Hello?” she said. She felt like her voice was stuck in her throat. “I am here on behalf of Magnus the Magnificent,” the knight said. “He has sent me to bring you back to the royal castle. You were chosen to be his apprentice, should you accept this honor.” “I’m sorry,” the youngest sister opened the door wider. “You must be looking for one of my sisters.” “No,” the knight shook his head. “I was sent by Magnus himself and his directions to your humble home were very specific.” “You must really have the wrong sister,” she said again. “For you see, I have no magical powers like my sisters do.” “And that is the secret that you have been hiding for all these years,” a voice said from behind the knight. The youngest sister squinted into the pale light that the moon cast down on the man that was standing behind the knight. “Yes,” she nodded. “It is.” The knight moved aside to let the other man pass. He was an old man with a long white beard and a full head of white hair. He had bushy white eyebrows and he wore a long red cloak that seemed to flicker like firelight in the light of the full moon. “You’re Magnus?” the youngest sister said. “The warlock who serves the king?” “Yes, I am,” the old man said. “And what is your name?” “My name is Nix,” she said. “You obtained something today, Nix,” the old man said. “Did you not?” The youngest sister nodded. “May I see them?” Magnus asked. Nix went inside and retrieved the two firebird feathers from the pocket of her skirt that was laying on a chair by the fire. “Firebird feathers,” Magnus nodded. “You do know that only one with the most powerful magic can touch a firebird.” “I didn’t really touch him,” Nyx said. “I was just trying to rescue him from my sisters.” “Yes,” the old man nodded. “And I appreciate that greatly.” “You’re—” Nix started. “Yes,” Magnus said. “I was that firebird. And the fact that you hold two of my feathers in your hand proves that you touched me while we were out in the forest today.” “But I have no magical powers,” Nyx said. “Not like my sisters.” “That is where you are wrong,” Magnus said. “You have more magic than both of your sisters combined, you just need to learn how to use it. And I have chosen you to become my apprentice because of your vast powers and your mercy.” Nyx looked at the two feathers in her hand. Magnus smiled at the young girl and said, “Come with me and I will show you the power you have. I will train you to become the most powerful witch in the land. Be my apprentice and you can take my place as advisor to the king and become the head sorceress of the kingdom.” “Are you sure I have magic?” Nyx asked. Magnus nodded. “I will teach you how to release the magic that is inside of you. You will become greater than your sisters, and they will no longer drain you of your power.” Nyx looked up at him in shock. “Yes,” he nodded. “Your secret isn’t that you have no magic, it is that your sisters use you for your power.” “And I can escape them if I go with you?” she asked. “Yes,” Magnus said. “But my middle sister, she does good with the magic,” Nyx said. “She heals people.” “With stolen magic,” Magnus said. “The people can come to you instead.” “What will happen to my sisters?” Nyx asked. “Whatever you decide for their fate,” Magnus said. “They have both committed a great crime in draining you of your power. Stealing magic from another is punishable by death.” Nyx stared at the feathers in her hands. “Can I have them spared?” Nyx asked. “For they are my sisters.” “Only if you come with me,” Magnus said. “Only if you work for the king can you have the authority to ask that your sisters be spared.” Nyx looked at the feathers in her hands. “So, you were the firebird?” she asked. “Yes,” Magnus nodded. “The most powerful magical creature in existence. And you will be the next firebird, with my training.” Nyx ran her fingers along the soft, hot barbs of the feathers. “We must hurry. It is almost midnight, and the apprentice ceremony can only be done in the moonlight on All Hallows’ Eve,” Magnus said. She smiled up at Magnus and said, “I accept your offer.” Born and raised in California, Judy Lunsford now lives in Arizona with her husband and Giant Schnoodle, Amos. She writes with dyslexia and a chronic illness (Meniere’s Disease), is hard of hearing, & is a breast cancer survivor. She writes mostly fantasy, but occasionally delves into suspense, women’s lit, and YA fiction. She has written books and short stories for all ages. She likes playing RPG’s and drinking lots of coffee. Cover Graphic: Amanda Bergloff Cover Painting: "The Firebird," Yelena Polenova, 1898

If you are familiar with Baba Yaga, you may think she’s a terrifying, iron-toothed, big-nosed witch who just might help you on your quest if you are very, very good. On the other hand, she might put you in her oven and eat you. But when you pick up The Witch and the Tsar, be prepared to think again. Olesya Salnikova Gilmore's debut novel features a reimagined Baba Yaga in Ivan the Terrible's Russia, and her story is very different than you might expect. It begins in the woods where Yaga, a hundreds-of-years-old half-human, half-goddess, lives in her famous chicken-legged hut, Little Hen. Her only other companions are Noch, a sharp-tongued owl, and Dyen, a huge, ever-loyal wolf. Though Yaga keeps her distance from the mortals, she always helps those who come in search of her healing magic. But everything changes when her friend Anastasia, wife of the Tsar, comes to beg for her aid. The young Tsaritsa is dying, and no one but Yaga can help. Ivan the Terrible, 16th century Russia, and Russian mythology are all subjects I know very little about. But I love to learn, and I really love to be transported somewhere new (or old), and The Witch and the Tsar doesn’t disappoint. It features an impressive cast of complex real-life figures like Ivan the Terrible appearing side by side with Russian fairy tale characters like warrior princess Marya Morevna and sometime villain Koshey the Deathless. These multilayered and fascinating characters were among my favorites in the book. Giving Yaga a place in the Russian pantheon of immortals and entwining them in historical events makes for an intriguing story I’d recommend to fans of Kate Forsyth, Katherine Arden, and Mary McMyne. The Witch and the Tsar is a rich blend of history and fairy tales, and at its heart is a flesh and blood woman who must risk being human. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Editor’s note: The use of folk magic in this poem, along with its economy of words, paints a truly magical picture for the reader. And we love the twist at the end! You can keep witches from your door With two dead cats Underneath your floor. To guard against witches’ evil looks Press four leaf clovers In a heavy book. A better way to keep out ill Is a jar of broken pins On the windowsill. Both mistletoe and the rowan’s wood Will keep out the bad And in the good. Add horseshoes nailed to the front porch posts To give fair warning To the devil’s hosts. Then cross your fingers behind your back Throw salt past your shoulder Don’t step on a crack. Because you see it’s all their doing The still born calf The failed seed sowing. Behind the guise of midwife and nurse A witch works her evil And plants her curse. If you work these charms free of fear or doubt God will dwell within And the witch without. Don’t dwell upon that disquieting glitch That if your spells work Then you’re the witch. Wendy Purcell was a nurse, now she writes. Her short stories and poems have appeared in [Untitled], Braindrip, Unusual Works, Every Day Fiction, Vautrin and The Haibun Journal. She lives near Melbourne, Australia and is often in her garden that is both too big and yet never big enough. Image: Pixabay

The Witch is Back, by Sophie H. Morgan, is a fun, escapist story about young witches in love. Emmaline Bluewater, a low-ranking witch with plant magic, left the witch community of New Orleans after being abandoned by her fiancé, Bastian Truenote, a charming warlock from a prominent family who possess the powers of mind magic. Embarrassed and ridiculed for being left at the altar, Emma moves to Chicago and opens a bar for humans which is aptly named Toil and Trouble. When Bastian returns after several years and tells Emma he needs her to marry him to prevent a negative consequence of their broken engagement contract, the couple is thrust back into a relationship and must navigate the magical circumstances that have kept them apart. This book is a steamy romance novel set in a magical world, but the story is truly about two people who have grown and changed since their early adulthood and must learn to fall in love with one another again. Obstacles to their emerging love abound, and scenes that explore difficult family conflicts are set against scenes that fully describe the budding sexual relationship between Emma and Bastion. The plot unfolds in a world where witches communicate through mirrors, travel the globe by opening portals, and add telekinetic fingers to their sexual encounters, so an air of magic permeates the real-world settings and concerns in the book. This book is not high fantasy or high literature, but readers looking for a spicy tale of love that takes place in a contemporary world populated by witches will enjoy the romantic escape. The story provides plenty of secrets for readers to uncover, and the novel ultimately underscores the importance of both choice and love in securing a happily ever after. This was a fun romcom read! You can learn more about the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

WELCOME FALL! "It's the first day of autumn! A time of hot chocolatey mornings, and toasty marshmallow evenings, and, best of all, leaping into leaves!" ~ A. A. Milne Fall is a magical time of year when the wild beauty of nature takes one last colorful breath before winter sets in. We look forward to the vibrant leaves falling around us on a windy day, the earlier sunsets when we can cozy up around a firepit outdoors with friends, wearing comfy sweaters again, buying just the right pumpkin for the front porch, picking out books from a used bookstore on a crisp Saturday morning, and so many more things that inspire and revive our spirit at this time of year. To inspire you too, we've collected some of our favorite things about fall...so please enjoy the quotes, art and folklore below that highlight this beautiful season! ~The Months of Autumn~ SEPTEMBER There are flowers enough in the summertime, More flowers than I can remember- But none with the purple, gold, and red That dye the flowers of September! ~ Mary Howitt OCTOBER October glows on every cheek, October shines in every eye, While up the hill and dawn the dale Her crimson banners fly. ~ Elaine Goodale Eastman NOVEMBER November comes And November goes, With the last red berries And the first white snows. With night coming early, And dawn coming late, And ice in the bucket And frost by the gate. The fires burn And the kettles sing, And earth seeks to rest Until the next spring. ~ Clyde Watson "Smoke hangs like haze over harvested fields, The gold of stubble, the brown of turned earth And you walk under the red light of fall The scent of fallen apples, the dust of threshed grain The sharp, gentle chill of fall. Here as we move into the shadows of autumn The night that brings the morning of spring Come to us, Lord of Harvest Teach us to be thankful for the gifts you bring us ..." ~ Autumn Equinox Ritual FALL FOLKLORE Married in September’s golden glow, smooth and serene your life will go. If the storms of September clear off warm, the storms of the following winter will be warm. Much rain in October, much wind in December. If trees show buds in November, the winter will last until May. There is no better month in the year to cut wood than November. According to an old superstition, if you catch a red or gold leaf falling from a tree during autumn, you'll be free of colds for the next year. Another variation on this superstition is that for every leaf you catch, you will have a lucky month the following year. And, once you have caught your leaf, keep it safely throughout the winter, until new green buds appear on the trees in the spring. Scarecrows can protect fall crops, but they must be given hats to keep them cool in the sun, and once they're given clothes, a human can never wear those clothes again as it will bring them bad luck. Click the video below for an easy DIY fall luminary project to light those autumn evenings. How silently they tumble down And come to rest upon the ground To lay a carpet, rich and rare, Beneath the trees without a care, Content to sleep, their work well done, Colors gleaming in the sun. At other times, they wildly fly Until they nearly reach the sky. Twisting, turning through the air Till all the trees stand stark and bare. Exhausted, drop to earth below To wait, like children, for the snow. ~ Elsie N. Brady Dancing of the autumn leaves on a surface of a lake is a dream we see when we are awake. ~ Mehmet Murat Ildan SONG FOR AUTUMN Don't you imagine the leaves dream now how comfortable it would be to touch the earth instead of the nothingness of the air and the endless freshets of wind? And don't you think the trees especially those with mossy hollows, are beginning to look for the birds that will come - six, a dozen - to sleep inside their bodies? And don't you hear the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first tuffets of snow? The pond stiffens and the white field over which the fox runs so quickly brings out its long blue shadows. The wind wags its many tails. And in the evening, the piled firewood shifts a little, longing to be on its way. ~ Mary Oliver PUMPKIN PIE SQUARES Click on the video below for a super easy fall pumpkin dessert! “If a year was tucked inside of a clock, then autumn would be the magic hour." ~ Victoria Erickson "No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face." ~ John Donne The Full Moons of AUTUMN The Harvest Moon September 29, 2023 This is the full moon closest to the autumn equinox. It rises within a half-hour of when the sun sets, and when farmers had no tractors, it was essential that they work by the light of this full moon to bring in the harvest. ------ The Hunter's Moon October 28, 2023 The Hunter's Moon was given its name because it was at this time that tribes gathered meat for the long winter ahead. ------ The Beaver Moon November 27, 2023 The full moon for November is named the Beaver Moon because this is the time that beavers become particularly active building their winter dams in preparation for the cold season. Since the beaver is mainly nocturnal, they can be seen working under the light of this full moon. AUTUMN ART GALLERY At the First Touch of Winter Summer Fades Away, Valentine Cameron Prinsep, 1897 Girl on a Swing, Maxfield Parrish, 1905 Woman with Autumn Leaves, Andrew Stovovich, 1994 Autumn, Simeon Solomon, 19th Century Autumn, Levitan Sokolniki, 1879 Autumn, Alphonse Mucha, 1896 Autumn Angel, I. R. Outhwaite, 1916 The Bower Meadow, Dante Gabriel Rosetti, 1872 Wishing everyone a magical fall! Share what you love about this season in the comments section below The Fairy Tale Magazine's contributing editor, Amanda Bergloff, writes modern fairy tales, folktales, and speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in various anthologies, including Frozen Fairy Tales, After the Happily Ever After, and Uncommon Pet Tales. Follow her on Twitter @AMANDABERGLOFF